I think about this blog lots, honest, I just never have time to write anything on it. And it’s 22.52 now, so not the best time to start, particularly as I have poured myself a large-ish one. Hic. Slur. Typo.
So. Recap. My undercarriage – you know, my de-furred, depilated, denuded, acutely sensitised and pre-brutalised undercarriage – took pointed exception to the bright red antiseptic paint (I was told the actual make-up of it later, but I forget) that I was coated from chest to mid-thigh with, in theatre. Pointed exception. Am I using enough italics here, folks?
When I realised what the problem was, I trotted off to my practice nurse – a dear, stalwart soul who has extensive experience of my oddities. She settled her glasses firmly onto her nose, leaned around my knee, peered narrowly at what I had to show her – and took an intake of breath reminiscent of a car mechanic who has spotted a juicily lucrative head gasket. She patted my knee, shook her head and told me what I’d already worked out for myself: skin-wise, I was going to lose the lot. Every area I’d plucked, every square inch I’d de-forested, every follicle I had, in fact, annoyed the bloody hell out of before going in for surgery.
Overall, I lost about… ummm… about 10 square inches of top-layer skin from an extremely personal spot.
Yeah. Never doing that again. Next time: I stay forested and they can find their own goddamn way about down there.
And then my brace of abdominal stitches went manky. Practice nurse had confirmed my suspicions that they were not, in fact, dissolvable ones at all. I had vaguely planned to go and have them removed, but I was busy, and it became apparent one evening about a week after my Op that the belly button one needed out, and pronto. We appeared to have a dearth of suitable implements; I tried – very briefly, and with no serious expectation of success – with the kitchen scissors, before moving onto nail clippers, with which I succeeding solely in nipping previously undamaged skin with the side I wasn’t concentrating on. I then found a craft knife and started sawing industriously away at the stitch, but the bloody knife was blunt, and I couldn’t find tweezers so I was using an earing instead, so there was only a tiny mm or two of stitch I could actually get at, and John was alternately peering apprehensively at me and prognosticating Doooom, and turning away with a shudder, and… well. I became hot and Harassed. Belly buttons are not the easiest thing to access when you have as much padding as I have, and my neck was hurting like a sod from trying to peer over the significant impediment of spare tyres and boobs.
I eventually did the clever thing, and begged a surgical scalpel and long-nosed tweezers from our doctor neighbour. By then, of course, the cut was even more swollen and sore, but I eventually became Stitch-Free. The belly-button incision immediately and dramatically improved: the one on my belly has knitted very badly for no obvious reason, and I have a half-healed wound visible practically from space.
And then, then,
Harry Hairy Disease Vector caught a cold, and suffered mildly with it for 48 hours. John and I promptly imbibed it from him and have spent a week near-prostrate, sounding like a pair of particularly TB-ridden badgers. We wanted nothing more than inactivity and sleep, but events militated against us: Harry, the devious little bugger, can now open the babygate across his bedroom door – and, as he is now waking to use the potty in the early hours 3 nights out of 7, we have a midnight tourist arriving regularly – and heavily – in our bed. It wouldn’t be so bad if he was happy to snuggle down and go back to sleep, but the cheeky sod’s just taken to flicking our bedroom TV on before clambering smugly between us. Cue disruption, protest and Eventual Grumpiness From All.
I disapprove fairly stringently of young children having TVs in their bedrooms; nevertheless, there’s this tiny wee voice in my head talking an awfully persuasive talk. It murmurs to me of More Sleep and Happy Toddler.
Is this how it starts?